The Holly and the Ivy
by Katie Duggan's Niece
Summary: Cranford fanfiction, based on episode 3, involving the intertwined fates of Harry Gregson, Mr. Carter, and Lady Ludlow. Christmas in Cranford in the Year of Our Lord 1842: a time of joy but also of loneliness...and perhaps a miracle or two. Complete.
1. In the Bleak Midwinter

The following was based upon the excellent BBC series **Cranford**, which was first broadcast in 2007 in Britain and 2008 in the United States, and was adapted by Heidi Thomas from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by the Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to the BBC or to Mrs. Gaskell.

* * *

"Winter is the darkest season when one is alone." – a quotation from episode three of **Cranford**

**Chapter 1: In the Bleak Midwinter**

Christmas Eve. Not as cold as it might have been, and yet Constable Graves had reason enough to stamp his boots and rub his hands together. Gloves were of little help to him nowadays; he was not as young as he'd been, and standing out in the cold of an evening made his very bones ache.

He longed to be home, perhaps with a hot brick to his back, and something warm to drink – spiced wine, such as Phillis made, should be just what he'd like at such a moment – but he'd been summoned out to the jail, to stand watch until Sir Charles should arrive. A fine Christmas Eve! He cursed the day he'd been made constable.

But something was about to happen; of that he was sure. Perhaps Sir Charles meant to have Gregson on the ships before the new year. Yes, that was it. Trust Gregson to spoil Christmas, along with all else, but he'd get what he deserved.

They'd never had to send anyone away before, not in a town where a stolen apple, or a quarrel between two draymen, was thought a calamity, and talked of by the ladies for days on end.

Still, after that business with the mayor, and the robbing of Dr. Harrison's house, they could do little else. Mind you, that young physician hadn't _seen _anybody – the culprit had fled before he'd got downstairs – but a knife had been taken, and so had the mutton.

Harrison had seen what had become of Mr. Johnson, though -- such a blow he took to the head, and his mouth bleeding too. Of course he'd been set upon from behind, and could not say who it had been, but not long after, Gregson had come to Johnson's Universal Stores with brass enough to spend, a good deal more than an idle fellow ought to have at any season of the year, let alone Christmas. If he'd not robbed anyone, he'd done something just as wicked.

Gregson's fate was certain, then, if Sir Charles was coming tonight. Before another month passed he'd send that worthless vagabond to Australia, or some such place, and they'd hear nothing more of Job Gregson.

Of course Gregson should leave behind a wife and children, one of them a babe not six months old. No doubt that lot would end up in the workhouse, though Graves had begun to wonder if Harry -- Gregson's oldest lad, said to be very clever -- had some scheme or other to see his daddy freed. Fancy that, a boy of ten thinking he could outwit Sir Charles Maulver and the mayor and the lot of them! A chance should be a fine thing. Any road, Harry had best mind what he did, or he'd end like his father, far away in Australia, or maybe on the gallows.

Someone was coming now, by carriage. Visitors, likely on their way to the Tomkinson sisters. Graves again swore softly at being left standing about while folk made merry of a Christmas Eve.

In the darkness he squinted at the approaching vehicle. That was no hired fly; it was Lady Ludlow's carriage, truly it was. Her ladyship abroad on Christmas Eve, and on this very street! He'd never thought to see such a thing.

Odder still, the carriage drew to a stop very nearly where he stood. The door opened, and a man stepped out, bending his tall form as though it had only been with some trouble that he'd fit inside the carriage at all.

It was Mr. Carter, her ladyship's steward. Now there was another one who'd no reason at all to make merry on this night.

"Mr. Graves." Carter nodded to the constable.

"Mr. Carter."

"I've come to fulfill a commission from my lady. We're to await the arrival of Sir Charles, and afterwards further instruction from her ladyship."

"From her ladyship?" The moment he said the words, Graves knew they sounded cross, and disrespectful to the bargain. He did not mean them so, but surely it was his duty to answer only to the mayor and the magistrate. What business had Lady Ludlow with him, and at the _jail_, on a Christmas Eve?

* * *

_To be continued…_


	2. The Darkest Night in December

The following is based on the BBC series **Cranford**, which in turn was based on **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. Specifically, the story concerns episode three of the 2007 series, and ought not to be confused with the 2009 Christmas sequel.

The chapter below incorporates a bit of dialogue from Heidi Thomas's marvelous **Cranford** script, in addition to lyrics in the public domain.

I have no connection to Mrs. Gaskell, Ms. Thomas, or the BBC. I do this for the love of it, so please don't sue me.

But do review me.

**Chapter 2: The Darkest Night in December**

Christmas Eve. Not as cold as it might have been, and Harry didn't think anything of the weather once he had been walking for a bit. Besides, Mum wouldn't like it if he dallied, and left Dada waiting in the cold and dark for his supper.

Mum couldn't take it to him herself; she had James and the others to think of, and besides she had been crying all day and evening. She had tried not to show it, of course, but Harry had seen her eyes were red and swollen, and wet with tears.

He wished there were something he might say to stop Mum from being sad, but they both knew what was going to happen, and neither of them could do anything about it.

But he _could_ help her with the Christmas Eve supper, and so while she was holding James to her chest yet again Harry set out a bit of food on the table. It was not the fine meal they had planned when Dada had still been with them, of course, but Malachi and the others took their places quickly enough, and looked as though they wanted to begin at once.

Harry wouldn't let them eat yet, though, not until Mum was ready, but once she put James to bed and came to the table, she would not take anything for herself. Instead she gathered up bread, cheese, even a bit of sausage, to be supper for Dada, and gave them to Harry, who took them without a word, put on his cap, and set out for the village.

* * *

Most nights he hated the woods, and tonight it was worse – colder and darker and lonelier than ever it had been.

On reaching the village he passed by a snug little cottage, its windows brightened by the many candles within, and Harry could see the frilled caps and pale faces of what must have been a good many ladies. It was Christmas Eve – at this moment, Harry had very nearly forgotten that – and no doubt there was a fine strong fire burning on the hearth, and good things for the ladies to eat and drink.

If Dada had been home with them that night, they might have had a good supper too, and there should have been songs and stories for Christmas Eve. There was one song they all liked best.

_The holly and the ivy,_

_When they are both full grown_

_Of all the trees that are in the woods _

_The holly bears the crown._

It was a merry tune, and Dada could play it on his flute, and Mum would hum it when she went about her work. Harry couldn't remember the rest of the words – something about Jesus, he thought – but then he didn't care what the words were. He didn't want to sing it, not tonight. He didn't want to sing it ever again.

* * *

Dada had been so proud the day they'd all walked into Johnson's. It wasn't often he went into the village at all, and he almost never took the rest of them along, but he had on that day.

"Don't be dallying. Come on!"

They had followed him in a line, Mum and Harry and Malachi and the others, as though Dada were a duck and the rest of them ducklings. At another time Harry might have laughed at that, but on this day he couldn't, not when he knew how Dada had got all his money.

Dada himself cared nothing for that. He led them to Johnson's, and made them go inside. It was a wonderful place, with candles and trinkets and sweets, but Harry didn't want to see any of it. He wanted nothing so much as to go home again.

Especially when he saw how Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were looking at them. Mr. Johnson had big round eyes and a mouth that turned down at each side, and Mrs. Johnson looked like she'd just eaten a sour apple. She was watching Dada, who had turned to Mum and smiled.

"Go on," he said, nodding at some pretty combs for ladies. "Pick one for your Christmas box."

"Such an extravagance," said Mum, who opened her eyes wide but did not smile at the sight of all the fine things, even if one of them was to be her present.

Dada was standing there, watching her, and jingling the coins in his hand. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Johnson looking at him, and nodded and smiled back. For some reason that made Mr. Johnson go away, as if he were cross about something, and only Mrs. Johnson stayed behind, pressing her mouth into a straight line, as if she too had found a very good reason to be cross.

* * *

Supper was wonderful that night; they all had enough to eat, and it wasn't even a Sunday. Afterwards Dada gave them a tune on his flute, and Malachi pretended to play along with him, and they all laughed.

Dada had just finished his song and was bowing to Mum and all the rest of them when there came a knocking, and the door opened suddenly.

It was Mr. Graves, the constable.

"Job Gregson," he said, with a look and a voice that made Harry feel hollow inside, "I am arresting you on a charge of robbery and assault with an intent to endanger the life of Mr. Josiah Johnson."

Only then did Harry see that Mr. Johnson was standing behind the constable, looking as though he thought he'd just done the bravest thing in the world.

* * *

They had taken Dada away to jail then and there, though Mum had cried and asked them not to. But they wouldn't listen to her, and Dada wouldn't listen to Harry when he came to see him and begged him to say he'd been poaching. No, Dada said, he'd not see Harry go down as well, not when he was but ten years old.

But that meant that the magistrate would find Dada guilty of robbery, and put him on the ships -- unless Harry could find someone, anyone, who might want to know the truth.

* * *

Mr. Carter had sat at his desk and listened, and kept his voice low and quiet each time he asked a question.

Somehow that made Harry feel worse.

"Sir, he's not guilty."

Mr. Carter looked straight across the desk at him. "Can you vouch for his whereabouts on that night?"

The question was put forth in a calm, steady voice, and even so Harry could not bring himself to give an answer.

"Can you prove he was in another place?" went on Mr. Carter. "Otherwise occupied?"

"He was on Lady Ludlow's land," said Harry at last. "Poaching. Six brace of pheasants, two of snipe.

"I helped you write it in the ledger," he added, feeling his face go hot, as though burnt by fire.

"How do you know it was him?" Mr. Carter's voice was still low and even, but Harry could see that the line had appeared on his forehead, right between his eyes.

"I was with him. I was helping." It hurt worst of all to say that, but it was the truth, and Mr. Carter had taught him he must always tell the truth.

"Go home now." Mr. Carter spoke softly, even kindly, but Harry did not move. He could not.

"_Now_, Harry!" said Mr. Carter, his eyes at once very bright, his mouth twisting with anger.

Harry was frightened, too frightened even to say, "Yes, sir," and turned round at once. Still it seemed his legs would not carry him away fast enough.

He was across the lawn of the great house and nearly into the woods before he remembered to brush the tears from his eyes, and wipe his nose on the back of his hand.

* * *

After that, Harry didn't go back to the office to help Mr. Carter, and half-expected to be sent to the magistrate himself. Any road, Mr. Carter wouldn't help him anymore, not when Harry had been poaching again, after he'd said he wouldn't.

He had promised Mr. Carter he would be a good boy and make something of himself. What was that word he had taught him? _Transcend. To rise above one's circumstances._

Now Mr. Carter would never see him again, except to send him off to jail, and each day Harry looked for Mr. Graves to come back and take him away.

* * *

But it was not Mr. Graves who came to visit them.

It was several days before Christmas, and James had been crying all day, and Mum was in tears herself, when Harry heard the whinnying of horses and the creak of wheels. He came out of the doorway just in time to see Lady Ludlow step down from her carriage.

"Is this where Job Gregson lives?"

"Yes, it is, my lady," said Harry. He already had taken off his cap, just as Mr. Carter had taught him to do.

Lady Ludlow did not stay with them long, nor did she say much, but Harry saw her watching everybody and everything. Her face was beautiful to look at but very pale, and her eyes so large and surrounded by grey shadows that Harry thought her very like the ghosts that Dada talked about in his stories.

He ought to have been afraid of her, and yet when she turned round to look at him once she did not look so very fearsome at all. She looked sad, Harry thought, though he did not know why her ladyship should be sad, when she'd a fine carriage to ride in, and plenty to eat, and not only on Sundays.

* * *

Christmas Eve. It was cold, and already quite dark, before Harry reached the jail. He hated to think of Dada spending Christmas Eve in that terrible place, but even more he hated the thought of him being sent away.

There was lamplight enough to see the street clearly, and the carriage sitting not far from the jail. It was a fine carriage, Harry saw, and there were men standing close by it.

One of them was Mr. Graves, who had come to take Dada away.

Another was Mr. Carter. He didn't have his hat on, and Harry could see his face in the lamplight, but he should have known him anyway by the long coat he wore.

Harry was wondering what Mr. Carter was doing there on Christmas Eve, and with Lady Ludlow's carriage too, when another man appeared -- on horseback, riding at a gallop. Harry quickly hid himself, but he could hear everything that was said, and see everything that was happening.

"Good evening, Sir Charles," said Mr. Graves, in a voice Harry had never heard him use.

"What the devil's going on, Graves?" said Sir Charles Maulver crossly, getting down from his horse.

_The magistrate had come. He had come on Christmas Eve._

He was going to send Dada away. He was going to send him away that very night...

_To be continued…_


	3. What Can I Give Him?

The following is based on the 2007 BBC series **Cranford** - specifically, episode three - and ought not to be confused with the 2009 sequel.

For the 2007 series, screenwriter Heidi Thomas adapted** Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. The chapter below incorporates a few lines from Ms. Thomas's script. I have no connection whatsoever to her, Mrs. Gaskell, or the BBC, and have tried to be sparing with the dialogue.

The title of this chapter was taken from a line in Christina Rossetti's poem "In the Bleak Midwinter."

As always, I welcome reviews and other feedback.

**Chapter 3: What Can I Give Him?**

_Yours are the eyes through which He looks with compassion on this world. Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good. Teresa of Avila_

* * *

Christmas Eve. It was not as cold as it might have been, though she was by no means eager to go out on such a night. Yet she would do so, and willingly, to fulfill her duty. Indeed for the children's sake she must.

She would never do it, were it not for the children.

But perhaps that was something of an exaggeration, she reminded herself with scrupulous honesty. She would not do it but for the children _and _for Mr. Carter. They had all of them lain upon her conscience the last week of Advent - Mr. Carter for his disconcerting frankness, as well as the humility and urgency of his entreaties, and the children for their simple need, and the bleak, hollow expression in their eyes.

It should haunt her all her days, that expression.

* * *

Her estate manager had come to her not long after Job Gregson had been taken for robbery and assault. Gregson's eldest child, Harry, had in recent months served as Mr. Carter's messenger, earning himself a coin or two from the steward's own pocket, and upon the father's arrest, the boy had quite naturally turned to his stern benefactor for counsel and assistance.

But to describe Mr. Carter merely as _stern_ was to do him an injustice. Upright he was, and strict as well, but also kind, very kind.

And merciful and generous too, it seemed. He would not believe Job Gregson capable of violence. The man had a wife and six children, said Mr. Carter, and what he had done he had only done to provide for their welfare. He was a poacher and a squatter, it was true, but if he were punished with transportation for greater offenses, it should subject his innocent family to ruin.

It was most unsettling to hear Mr. Carter go on in his manner, and it had not been with any particular warmth that she had received his request. He knew very well that, quite apart from her obligations to Septimus, the welfare and happiness of a great many people were in her hands. It seemed most unjust of Mr. Carter to beg her to assume yet another burden, and for the benefit of a man who had wronged her. Job Gregson was not a tenant of hers, but he _was_ a poacher, and must be held to account.

* * *

But of course Mr. Carter had not asked her to wink at Job Gregson's misdeeds, only to provide testimony that should encourage Sir Charles to convict him of poaching, and not far worse.

Sir Charles Maulver was a man whose good sense was enhanced neither by sentiment nor by any particular patience, and the protestations of a squatter, or even of Mr. Carter, should carry no weight against the testimony of the mayor himself. Mr. Johnson had demanded justice, and it should be no trouble to Sir Charles to fulfill his request in every particular. Indeed a harsh sentence might only increase his standing, and Mr. Johnson's, though they neither of them wanted for it.

In her most secret heart she felt ashamed even for allowing herself to think such a thing, and to feel irritation at the notion that in all this Mr. Carter had somehow found fault with _her_. But his final words had troubled her conscience greatly: if she could not help this family, he hoped that God would.

Still, for all that, she should have known nothing, and perhaps done nothing, if she had not gone to where Job Gregson lived. What she had seen there had shaken her to the very core.

* * *

_Squatter_ was a term one spoke with practiced ease. She could scarcely have imagined the truth behind such an appellation.

It was in the woods that Job Gregson, the poacher, the vagabond, made his home. There stood a most wretched hovel, no doubt hastily constructed, no doubt a poor defense against wind and rain. Inside there was but little furniture - a table and a chair or two, and a befouled bed, where the woman sat with two of her children: a little lad perhaps two years old, and an infant. The boy was screaming, the baby was wailing, and their mother, exhausted and despairing, was fairly in tears herself.

In the doorway stood the eldest, Harry. He was surely no more than ten years old but had known enough to remove his hat when Lady Ludlow alighted from the carriage, and had, in responding to her inquiry, employed the proper form of address. And though he might have been startled by her unexpected visit, there had been no fear in his eyes, and no shame, for all that he must receive her in such a place.

* * *

Yet it had cost her several days more of thought, and of an unsettled conscience, before she had formed a decision.

It was Christmas Eve, and the fire was burning gloriously before her, and silence reigning all about. _All is calm, all is bright. _But that was of course only an English translation; the original German spoke of the lonely family keeping vigil - and a most blessed family, to be sure, despite its wretched circumstances. Father, mother, and child. So it ought to be on such a night.

Above all else she must mourn that there were no children at Hanbury. She had confessed as much to Charles, and to Laurentia, during the summer, though it was surely in winter, and above all at Christmas, that she felt the loss most keenly. There ought to have been children here – her children, of course, and _their_ children, her grandchildren – infants she could hold in her arms, rosy little girls and boys, awkward youths and blooming young girls. They all ought to have been there together, with the little ones playing some game or other, and the men engaged in tedious but vigorous discussions of hunting and of Parliament, and the ladies shivering slightly in their evening finery, and drawing closer to the fire. It was a vision that delighted and tormented her in equal measure, and she no longer knew which sensation, pain or pleasure, was the stronger.

Still, she allowed herself to hope that her fancy was not entirely foolish. Perhaps Septimus _would _return this year, and bring a bride - an English lady, perhaps, he should meet in Italy, or a Frenchwoman or a German introduced to him by their surviving relations on the continent. Dear Septimus! For his sake, and for her own, she prayed it might be so.

But as she looked into the fire a terrible doubt again seized her heart, and tears formed in her eyes. She had given first one child back to God, and then another, then all the others, save Septimus, and no one remained to her, not truly. It was a cruel thing, crueler than she had ever imagined.

She resolved then that she should not prove cruel herself.

* * *

She had been given authority, like the centurion in the Gospel, and must use it wisely. She should be the instrument of God, and so should Mr. Carter and Sir Charles - the one willingly, the other no doubt reluctantly. _Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy._

But she must not fail, not on this night.

* * *

In the hallways of the great house Mr. Carter's step was always brisk and firm, and generally served notice of his arrival before the man himself could be seen. On this occasion he appeared, greatcoat flung over one arm, astonishment evident in his face.

"You sent for me, my lady." It was a statement and a question in one.

"Mr. Carter, I have business in Cranford." She descended the steps and approached the waiting carriage.

"On Christmas Eve?"

"I wish you to attend with me. Come. We must make haste."

_To be continued…_


	4. Ye Who Now Will Bless the Poor

Quick, what do you do during a heatwave? Why, update a Christmas story - finally.

* * *

The following is based on the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, which was adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. Specifically, the story concerns episode three of the 2007 series, and ought not to be confused with the 2009 Christmas sequel. As usual, I have incorporated a few bits of dialogue from Heidi Thomas's wonderful script.

_

* * *

_

**Chapter 4: Ye Who Now Will Bless the Poor**

_Therefore, Christian men, be sure_  
_Wealth or rank possessing_  
_Ye who now will bless the poor_  
_Shall yourselves find blessing_

John Mason Neale, "Good King Wenceslas."

* * *

Christmas Eve. It was not as cold as it might have been, though of course he had all that day kept a fire burning in the grate in his office.

"I wouldn't mind an office," Harry had said to him the first time he had come there, during the previous summer. The impudence of the remark had been all the more astonishing given that Harry had only been brought to the office because he had just been discovered fast asleep in the greenhouse. The boy was young, but not too young to understand that trespassing on her ladyship's property was a very serious matter indeed.

Moreover, it had not been his first offense. One market day earlier that summer, Miss Pole - who, unlike Constable Graves, had neither farm nor family to demand her attention - had detained Harry as he was attempting to sell some brown trout. On that occasion the charge ought to have been poaching, another quite serious matter, yet Miss Pole had turned the boy over not to the magistrate but to her ladyship's estate manager and, for all her denunciations of Harry's parentage and character, done him a kindness.

_Kindness_. Was it too much for Harry Gregson to expect kindness in this world?

Now, in the darkest days of winter, it seemed that it was.

* * *

Harry's education had begun simply. The boy already knew something of responsibility - his father was often from home, and had left his eldest with burdens beyond his years if not his abilities - but had not yet learnt what an honest day's work truly meant. He was at times impudent, of course, but there was no malice in him. Indeed, once set a task or two, he appeared genuinely eager to prove helpful.

And he proved, Mr. Carter was pleased to see, every bit as quick as he had seemed from the first. Indeed it was tempting to entertain thoughts of how swiftly an unlettered boy of ten might, with a little schooling, outstrip the spoilt and indolent sons of his so-called betters - but that was perhaps too ambitious just now. First Harry must nurture his natural abilities. In time, others should recognize his worth.

So Mr. Carter had taught Harry to scrub his face and clean his fingernails, to take off his cap before her ladyship and address her properly, to cast accounts and write a decent hand, to love the written word even better than he already did.

It had gone so well, at first.

Then came that night in December, and the attack upon Mr. Johnson, and the absurd charges against Job Gregson, who, for all his faults, was not a violent man. But the sight of the squatter with a pocket full of coins had been, to Mr. Johnson, proof enough that he _was_, and the same feeble evidence would do very well for Sir Charles Maulver, who should have no compunction at all about sentencing him to transportation, leaving Gregson's wife and six children to shift for themselves.

God help them all.

* * *

"Sir, he's not guilty."

At Harry's words, Mr. Carter's heart ought to have leapt up. There was a chance of saving Job Gregson, then, and of preventing Harry and his brothers and sisters from being left fatherless.

But should the word of a child be enough to do so? And even if it was, Mr. Carter suspected very much that some disturbing revelation should accompany the truth.

And it gave him no satisfaction when his suspicions proved correct.

* * *

So Harry had been poaching again, and on Lady Ludlow's land, and when he was in her ladyship's employ - well, in her estate manager's employ; Mr. Carter paid the boy from his own pocket - despite all previous admonitions. All those words, all those fine promises - empty, totally empty. He might as well have left Harry as he'd found him, dirty, ragged, unschooled. Evidently he'd learned a good deal less than Mr. Carter had believed.

But perhaps that was unfair. Job Gregson had taken the snipe and pheasant with Harry's assistance, and the boy could hardly be expected to defy his own father, questionable though their enterprise had been. And he _had_ come to Mr. Carter and made a full confession, even if it was after Constable Graves had taken Job Gregson for robbery and assault.

Still, Harry had played such a very double game, helping Mr. Carter to record the theft, when he and his father had been the author of it all. It was a bitter betrayal, something that tore at Mr. Carter's very soul.

Yet, once his anger cooled, he could not but think of the reasons behind such seeming treachery. Gregson had a wife and six children, but no reliable means of providing for them. What he had done was, after a fashion, selfless. He'd poached to feed his family, and when the law had come for him, he'd not given up the boy as well.

Surely that, in itself, was reason enough to seek clemency - no,_ justice_ - for Job Gregson, if someone with rank and power enough would only intervene, and furnish Sir Charles with the proof he required.

* * *

Christmas Eve. Her ladyship had summoned him on _Christmas Eve_ - an astonishing prospect.

It was not that Mr. Carter had any other obligation on such a night. When his wife had been alive, there should have been a merry supper, and then the fireside afterwards, and tranquility besides – though if there had been children, there should have been a happy uproar.

Instead Christmas Eve was very much as any other night of the year - but for this curious summons, which of course he would obey. In haste he seized his greatcoat and went to where Lady Ludlow stood waiting, her carriage at the ready.

"You sent for me, my lady."

"Mr. Carter, I have business in Cranford."

"On Christmas Eve?"

"I wish you to attend with me. Come. We must make haste."

Her command, and her statement, did not so much as allow him a moment to don the greatcoat, or to put further questions to her. He followed her ladyship down the steps to the carriage, and in silence they set off together.

The light was fading, yet sufficient that he might see her face once they were inside the carriage. He could not, merely by looking at her, divine the purpose of their journey, yet for an instant he was persuaded that she was smiling at the very prospect.

_To be continued..._


	5. Where E'er His Body Rides or Walks

The following is based on the 2007 BBC series **Cranford**, adapted from **Cranford**, **Mr. Harrison's Confessions**, and **My Lady Ludlow**, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. Specifically, the story concerns episode three, and I have made use of several lines from Heidi Thomas's wonderful script.

And as "The Sussex Mummers' Carol" is always sung at the conclusion of Christmas Revels, I had to find a place for it somewhere in this story!

* * *

**Chapter 5: Where E'er His Body Rides or Walks**

_God bless the master of this house_

_With happiness beside;_

_Where e'er his body rides or walks,_

_His God must be his guide._

- "The Sussex Mummers' Carol"

* * *

Christmas Eve. It was not as cold as it might have been, yet no man in his right mind would want to be abroad on such a night.

Certainly Sir Charles Maulver had no desire to be, and indeed why should he? This was an evening to take one's ease, to offer one's neighbors the compliments of the season, in good will and in fellowship. It was hardly a time to be peremptorily summoned out into the cold, and to the _jail_, no less, even if it was Lady Ludlow's particular wish.

In a black mood Sir Charles had ordered his horse saddled, in preparation to set off into the dusk, and forgo the comforts of his fireside, and mutter a curse or two under his breath - a forgivable offense, surely, under the circumstances.

What in God's name was her ladyship playing at? There was no issue at hand save this business with the mayor and the vagabond Job Gregson - a matter that should be quickly dispatched, likely before the new year. Gregson would be found guilty, and there would be an end of things.

That squatter and poacher was, of course, of no concern to her ladyship, unless her devotion to charity had of late taken a most peculiar turn - which, Sir Charles had to admit, was improbable but not impossible. He had the highest esteem for his neighbor but suspected very much that years spent in the empty parlors and endless hallways of that damnably large house could indeed plant the seeds of eccentricity, particularly in a widow of advanced years. Why, he himself might well run mad if made to live alone at Hanbury Court, especially throughout the long winter evenings.

* * *

The season and the hour dictated that his business was best accomplished swiftly, and it was at a gallop that Sir Charles passed through the streets of the village, deserted now, on Christmas Eve, though light spilling from many a window gave indication of homely comforts within.

There were no such signs of comfort and cheer in the marketplace, where the jail held its lone prisoner, and where her ladyship's carriage stood, well attended by a pair of luckless servants, and by a tall fellow in a greatcoat, and by the constable, summoned from his own fireside to discharge his official duties.

"What the devil's going on, Graves?" said Sir Charles, dismounting.

"Her ladyship awaits you in her carriage, sir."

"A fine Christmas Eve this is!"

The second man spoke up. "Sir Charles."

"Mr. Carter."

So Lady Ludlow's steward had been brought into this matter, as well. Perhaps that was only right; she had no son to accompany her, let alone manage her affairs, and it was not as though Carter had wife or child of his own to think of on such a night.

* * *

The lamplight did not fully illuminate the interior of the carriage, so that it was almost that he must sense her ladyship's presence, rather than see it for himself. But her voice, if soft, was steady and firm, and betrayed no deference for his office.

He was _not_ her equal; that was true. But she was a woman, and ought not to have concerned herself with such a fellow as Gregson. Hadn't she tenants enough to think of, and that charitable school?

But he invoked neither Hanbury nor those wretched girls as he set forth his case in the plainest terms, and in his clearest, strongest voice. Gregson should be tried, and found guilty, of the most serious of charges.

Her ladyship remained vexingly calm, her own voice never rising much above a murmur as she answered his objections. Gregson was guilty of poaching, nothing more - and nothing less, thought Sir Charles darkly - and _she _should pay his fine, to spare his children the loss of their father. In stark daylight, perhaps, such arguments might not stand up to scrutiny, but on Christmas Eve Sir Charles would not thwart her in an act of Christian charity.

Of course he'd also no wish to see a miscreant treated so mildly; it was unlikely that Gregson should prove suitably grateful, and the mayor should object to the plan as a gross miscarriage of justice, though he would not dare say as much to her ladyship. In fact, natural deference, combined with ambition, might very well deny Johnson the pleasure of complaining of his hard fate.

Sir Charles smiled to himself at the prospect. Perhaps it _would_ be a merry Christmas after all.

* * *

Harry had been holding his breath since the magistrate arrived, but even so he could hear nothing of what was being said inside Lady Ludlow's carriage. Mr. Carter could hear it all, of course, but Harry could not ask him. He'd never be able to ask him anything -

Just then the door of the carriage swung open, and Harry saw Sir Charles Maulver getting out again, and heard Lady Ludlow's voice, for the first time since she'd come to see them at home.

"Mr. Carter, take the constable's key."

* * *

_Liberty._ Mr. Carter had taught him the word, taught him to write it, had even shown Harry a place in the Bible where it was used.

_ ...proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound..._

It had sounded very fine when Mr. Carter had read it aloud, and now Harry was glad he had learnt the verse by heart. _Proclaim liberty to the captives_. He wanted to say it to Mr. Carter when he unlocked the door and let Dada come out, but he thought Mr. Carter might still be cross about the poaching. Any road, Lady Ludlow had wanted to speak to Dada first, and when that was done it was time to go home.

"Come on, lad," said Dada softly, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. As they turned to leave, Harry heard a voice behind them.

"Mind you get safely home."

He turned round and looked up at Mr. Carter.

"Thank you, sir."

Mr. Carter didn't smile at that, but he didn't seem cross anymore either. For a moment he stood looking at the cold, hard ground. Then he looked up again and said, "It's Christmas Eve. You'd best be on your way."

"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."

And as Harry turned to go, he was sure he saw Mr. Carter smile. He was sure of it.

* * *

They said little to each other on the way back to Hanbury Court, but such silence was fitting upon this night, and this occasion. Mr. Carter had heard each word she had uttered to Sir Charles, and there was no call to say anything more, either in praise or in censure.

It was only when they had arrived at the house and she had been handed out of the carriage that Mr. Carter dared address the business that had taken them abroad on Christmas Eve.

"My lady," he said, "I am grateful, most truly grateful."

She knew it had cost him an effort both to utter the words and to remain silent during their journey to and from Cranford, yet still she replied, "On such a night, Mr. Carter, let us not speak of gratitude, except to the One to whom it is properly due, as the Author of all life."

"Yes, my lady."

"I think, however," she said, smiling slightly, "that we may take some contentment in knowing we have this night sought to perform His will." At that Mr. Carter's expression altered slightly, the line almost disappearing from between his brows, the pale eyes gleaming like winter ice, or the jewels she now kept hidden away. For an instant her stern estate manager seemed to vanish, and he was but her confederate, her confidant, and her fellow-traveler to the grave.

Then, just as quickly, their former relationship was restored, and they took their leave in the accustomed manner. Yet she smiled at him as he departed, and afterwards thought, however impassive her steward's countenance, however brusque his words, she might read his heart as easily as her own prayer-book.

_Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God._

* * *

It was a cold night - not so cold as it might have been, of course, but fully bitter enough, especially on such a Christmas Eve as this, when her very heart seemed numb with fear and dread as much as cold. Tonight sleep would come only with the greatest difficulty, and that long after the little ones were abed. There was much to think upon. There should _always_ be too much to think upon.

It did not help matters that Harry had not yet returned from the village, but she must not allow herself to think what might have become of him. She _would not_; it should be too much to bear -

Just then there came the sound of twigs snapping underfoot, of leaves rustling. Someone was coming through the woods, and whistling a carol. It was a merry tune, one she'd learnt when she was but a girl.

_The holly and the ivy,_

_When they are both full grown_

_Of all the trees that are in the woods _

_The holly bears the crown._

Outside a cry went up from Malachi and the little girls, but she dared not hope until she saw the both of them, Job and Harry, striding towards the house. And she did not truly believe it until her husband came to her, bending down for a kiss, his beard tickling her cheek and chin, and causing her to laugh and cry in the same instant.

* * *

Constable Graves stretched his legs out towards the hearth. A man should think he was in heaven at a moment like this, with the littler ones already abed and the elder gathered at the fireside. A good, strong fire it was too, one that ought to last the evening and keep the chill from his bones.

His missus was settled in her accustomed chair and had her sewing out, but she seemed to pay it little mind this evening, preferring instead to stare into the fire as one of the girls told a Christmas story.

He ought to have paid some mind to the tale himself, but in truth he was nearly dozing already, from warmth and contentment. There was nothing to worry about this evening, nothing at all.

Yet as he nodded before the fire, he had to wonder again at all he'd seen tonight. Graves wouldn't have believed her ladyship had such a soft heart, or that Sir Charles would allow himself to be swayed by a woman, or that Gregson's luck would take such a turn, if he'd not seen it all with his own eyes, heard report of it with his own ears. Truly a remarkable Christmas Eve, and the ladies should want to talk of nothing else for weeks on end.

But then they _must_ amuse themselves in some manner; there was little else to do in such a quiet place. Indeed he wagered he'd not have any manner of trouble to think of in these last days of the year. Cranford should be peaceful enough, likely till Twelfth Night. Yes, probably as long as that, he thought to himself. Probably as long as that.

**The End**

**

* * *

**

**A/N:** Matthew 5:7-8: "Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."

Isaiah 61:1: "...proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound..."


End file.
